


baby's first strife

by alwaysactually



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 08:03:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysactually/pseuds/alwaysactually
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Dave Strider and the first time you hold a sword you are six years old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	baby's first strife

**Author's Note:**

> though id attempt some cute bro and dave first strife scenario. notice i said attempt.

Your name is Dave Strider and the first time you hold a sword you are six years old. It’s wooden and heavy in your little hands that can barely wrap around the hilt and your arms begin to burn the minute you lift it. That might just be the sun though because you swear to god it is a million degrees up here on this godforsaken roof. Bro’s forgone his regular choice of a shitty (you picked up the word a few weeks ago when your pants stopped just short of your ankles and Bro had let out the expletive and you just echoed it solemnly) blade and is holding a larger version of the weapon you’re sporting.

This isn’t the first time you’ve been on the roof though. You’ve been coming here since before you could walk, talk, or even remember. Sometimes you have dreams of being thrown towards the edge before flitting back to your bro’s side, odd flashes with strange colors that make you wonder if you’re remembering or inventing. 

This isn’t the first time he’s trained you either. He’s been coming at you for years brandishing first Lil Cal and as you got older and faster, actual blades. Shurikens and knives dig into the door of your bedroom and trip wires more commonly then not stand between you and basic necessities. You were flashstepping before you could walk.

This isn’t just avoidance training anymore. The days for sidestepping and stealth and hiding out until the threat has passed are over. Bro’s finally going to let you fight. Not offensively. Not yet. He’ll teach you how to block and use your enemy’s size against him. How to feint and weave and outlast your opponent. But hell (that one was when you accidentally blew up the microwave how were you supposed to know foil can’t go in there) it’s better than running away.

He teaches you how to hold it. You note how pudgy your hands look in comparison to his. They’re bigger than your head and rough with calluses you know he has from swordplay. He makes you pick up the sword over and over until its instinct for your fingers to fall into place like there were little hidden grooves invisible to the human eye. He nods in approval and you feel your chest inflate with pride. You nod back.

He lifts his sword and you mirror the motion. Your arms begin to tremble almost immediately. Bro says nothing and you ignore the limitations of your own body and manage to quell the shaking. Your jaw goes stiff with the effort. This earns you another nod. 

It’s really hot now. Its high noon and you’re on the roof of your apartment in Texas of all places and you’re fairly sure you’re going to melt. You were sweating before but the exertion of holding the sword exacerbates it and its making your hair stick to your neck and its beginning to drip into your eyes. You’re safe from the glare luckily due to the shades Bro’s forced on you ever since you were a baby but you’re still blinking to dislodge the excess moisture that finds its way into your eyes without fail.

Bro moves and you react on instinct but the sword is too heavy and your speed is impaired. The sword clatters out of your hand having been knocked loose by Bro’s swing. The force of the blow sends you to your knees and the palms of your hand sting furiously. You burn in shame. Bro just nods again, to himself this time like he saw this coming. Bastard (Bro’s pet name for the landlord) probably did.

He waits patiently as you scramble to your feet and pick up the sword again. You adjust yourself slightly. You widen your stance and tighten your grip on the weapon but try to keep your arms loose. Go with the momentum not against. 

Second attempt. Bro uses the same move as before. You resolve not to let go no matter what the cost. The cost apparently being a face full of concrete. Fuck (that surprisingly enough you picked up from your mild mannered kindergarten teacher after you all started crying when the class hamster died).

You’re up faster this time and you ignore the stinging feeling manifesting in your cheeks. Your shades took the brunt of the damage but the lower half of your face feels pretty torn up. Bro’s still impassive as ever. You grit your teeth and change your stance again. If you keep this trial and error thing up you don’t know if you’ll ever get it right.

He’s moving again and this time you don’t fall. You manage to block, though you slide back a few feet. You break poker face for a second in pure delight but he’s moving again and you don’t really have time to celebrate. 

It feels more natural now but you still have to think about every move. You’re vaguely aware he’s driving you backwards but you don’t know how far until your back is pressed against the railing of the roof. An immediate sense of terror rockets through you, settling unpleasantly in your stomach. You don’t like being cornered. You’ve spent the last six years of your life learning how to avoid situations like this. 

You realize you’re breathing heavily and Bro has the sword raised, ready to send you careening over the building. His eyebrow is raised like he’s wondering the fuck you doin’ kid and you almost want to slap yourself. The second he adds in a new element you forget all the other shit he taught you. You flashstep. You’re slower than normal due to the heavyass sword you’re lugging around but you’re well away from the treacherous drop at least.

Bro’s facing you again, his body language clearly stating finally ya idiot. He strides towards you and you prepare to block but instead he raps your knuckles with the blade. You yelp and the sword clatters to the ground. It takes your more than a few tries to learn how to roll your wrists to prevent this and by the time you do your knuckles are smarting. You’re gonna have some nice bruises there.

Then Bro just stops. He gets in a stance and waits. You’re confused. You wait. You wait for two minutes. Neither one of you moves. Your arms begin to shake again and you shift positions to put less strain on them. He mimics you. You shift again. Once again he mirrors you. A flicker of realization. You’re on the offensive. 

You move quickly, trying your best to remember any of the moves Bro used on you earlier. He stops your pitiful strike with ease and you feel the shock travel up your arms from the strength of the block. He’s taught you how your speed can work against him but the sword is stopping you from effectively using it.

You come at him over and over again but he always blocks, occasionally your sword spins from your red palms and you have to move even faster now because he doesn’t hold back even when you’re unarmed. You become more familiar with the taste of the ground than you have been in years.

You’re getting desperate. Bro’s been handing you your ass for what feels like hours and you’re pretty sure you won’t be able to lift your arms soon. Gravel is imbedded in your elbows and your mouth tastes sour with the exception of salt as you swallow sweat. 

Your sword falls to the ground again. Bro’s elbow catches you in the stomach and you fly backwards. Somehow you get your feet under you and you youthroll away, snatching up your sword for the umpteenth time. 

You taste blood and you notice you’ve bitten your tongue. You spit and you think Bro appreciates the mangrit of the gesture because he stops his assault for a moment to nod. You wipe the back of your mouth and lick your lips. They’re cracked from the infernal heat and sun exposure and sting like a motherfucker.

But Bro keeps coming. You feel something lock into place as he rushes towards you, arms outstretched holding that dumb wooden sword with his stupid pointy anime shades. You run to meet him, your little legs pumping as fast as they can. You slip beneath the blade with ease and he turns to catch you with back end of the blade but you’re already gone, flashstepping to conserve momentum. 

You rocket towards him again and he prepares to block you but the strike never comes. You sidestep him and flashstep again still picking up speed. You’re literally running circles around him. He picks up on it real quick and starts matching you, but when you’re not worried about actually using the sword he can’t touch you.

When your lungs burn and you feel your muscles screaming at you to stop, you implement your plan. You dodge the blade again and flashstep. Bro’s already moving back into position waiting for the cycle to start again, but you’re gone. About twenty feet into the air.

You can momentarily see the sprawl of the city before you start hurtling towards the earth, gravity assisting your descent. Your stomach drops and your pulse is loud in your ears. You don’t realize you’re screaming until Bro looks up and you take satisfaction in his momentary look of surprise. 

Bro raises his sword and you swing with all your strength as you fall, the blades crashing together. The sound is deafening. The wood splinters beneath your fingertips and you grit your teeth in pain as some it punctures your hand. You come down hard, though Bro’s body cushions the fall somewhat.  
Your eyes closed upon impact, so you open them. You’re on Bro’s chest and he’s wheezing slightly beneath you. He’s flat on his back, palms open, and his sword is a few feet away, broken into two neat pieces unlike the complete decimation yours faced. His hat was knocked off and he looks alien without it. He’s peering at you over the tops of his shades and you feel chagrined for a second before you notice he’s smirking. 

“Nice strife, lil man.” He offers you a fistbump. You accept, though you wince at the contact. You won’t be able to go to school for a while. “Wanna popsicle or somethin’?” Fuck yes you do. “Cool. Popsicles are the fuckin’ best.”

Bro nurses your wounds while you eat the best cherry popsicle you’ve ever had in your goddamn life.


End file.
